Noir
by purplecleric
Summary: Take an alternate view... *Warning - this is a voyage to the dark side* This twisted tale expands on the themes introduced in "Redemption" - if you didn't like that, do not read on. For those made of sterner stuff, carry on, you're in for one hell of a ride...
1. Prologue

_The city lights sparkle, reflected in the wet pavement. Sparkle then shatter as the boot disturbs the puddle. It is night and he is shadow. Black within black, and inside him, it is blacker still. His hulking form prowls, beast like, as he searches, nostrils flaring, sniffing out a particular scent. He is seeking the dispossessed, the disenfranchised with their reek of desperation; of disillusionment; of despair. In this moment there are no plans, no schemes; just hunger and the all pervasive need. He is running on instinct, driven by desire, his quest for quarry._

_There, skinny figure swamped by grey clothing, leaning against the wall at the far end of the block. The jacket is too large, obscuring gender and the hood hides the features. But that is irrelevant. All that matters is the scent caught in his nostrils, the quickening in his belly and the stirring in his groin. His strides are more purposeful now and the prey fidgets, primal senses stirred. The pale figure shuffles away, casting nervous glances, pace increasing. Ducks into an alley, but unable to resist, peeks out, trying to ascertain if the threat is real or drug fuelled paranoia. _

_Grasp at the throat, strong arming against the filthy wall. Secures the hands above the head, uses his height, his weight to pin the emaciated body, a parody of a lover's embrace. He tilts his head, brings his lips down, and begins to whisper. He talks of misery, of futility, the pointlessness of continued existence, the frailty of the human condition. He talks of the comfort of emptiness, of numbness, of the blessing in endings. He pours soft, gentle words of death in the receptive ear, and waits. _

_Waits, mouth dry in anticipation of the response. Sometimes there is fight, the body twisting, lurching under his, and he reacts in kind, violence exploding, smashing, crushing and breaking. Not today. Today there is trembling, the hot wetness and acrid aroma of urine escaping, the sagging of the body against his. There are pleas, sobs, the offering of favours. He quiets the sounds, leather clad hand engulfing the mouth, pinching the nose. He see the panic flare in the grey eyes, feels the body jerk and twitch under his, the thrill in his belly, cock straining in the confines of his jeans. Power surges through him, cleansing him, freeing him. He watches the light die in cloudy eyes, feels the weight as life departs and the empty shell collapses. He ruffles the soft hair, runs a finger along the smooth cheek, steps away and lets the body drop. _

_He stretches, breathes deeply, revelling in the satisfaction, in the stillness, in the calm. He turns, heading home, aware of his erection rubbing against heavy denim. A hot shower awaits, maybe masturbation, maybe not. It is not necessary. He has already experienced a climax beyond the physical, beyond sexual. He feels sated, a deep lethargy settling into his muscles. Loose limbed and light headed, he disappears again into the night._


	2. Courtship

It is grey with sharp angles thrown into high contrast by harsh fluorescent lights. There is a sense of order, of discipline, of purpose. The room all but screams "serious". He strides into the lion's den, pleased with the sheep's clothing he has donned. Grimacing at the clumsy metaphor, he heads towards the corner office, aware of the turning heads, watching eyes and whispered comments.

He had spent a couple of weeks preparing for this latest role. In the military, it had been easy; uniform, regulations, strict codes. Not unlike his early days in the NYPD. Narcotics had been harder. Informal dress, irregular hours, nights spent undercover on the streets, close to the edge. It uncomfortably mimicked his very private life and it had taken a while to find his balance, not to blur his personal boundaries. That and a couple of close calls: finding himself on the street, the scent in his nostrils, the beast raging. Fortunately, junkies were plentiful and not known for their longevity. Like all predators, he had learned, adapted. Used his skills to gain distance from the street, to plan and run the operations.

Leading him to here: to the Major Case Squad. To now: to the debut of the latest refinement of his public persona. It had taken careful thought, meticulous preparation but this was the kind of task he enjoyed, relished. He had examined every detail, assessing relevance, rightness. Ruefully, he thought of the opened carton of smokes, abandoned on the kitchen table, soon to be passed onto Lewis and his cronies. At least, he could once again indulge his taste for 18 year old Glenlivet...

These thoughts had led him across the Squad room and to the Captain's office door.

Damn! Silently, she cursed the 'powers that be' that had decided to saddle her, not only with an oddball, but a fucking tall one at that. She mentally girded herself against the numerous times in the future she would hear the phrase "the long and the short of it." Cops never let things like that slide. At least he was not foaming at the mouth. In fact, he was not unappealing. Good suit, well cut, carefully co-ordinated shirt and tie combo, scruffy unshaven chin saving him from glibly being labelled "metro sexual".

She watched him draw himself to his full height and square his shoulders as he shook hands with the Captain. She recognised the action for what it represented, a display, a puffing out of feathers, a brief demonstration of power. Wondered at what drove the need to flout physical superiority to an authority figure. Holding out her own hand, she expected him to loom over her, but he tilted his head, dipped a shoulder, subtly trimming several inches from their height difference. "Bobby" a childlike name coupled with a snub nose, eyes crinkling as the shy smile formed. He had reduced his potency as effectively as he had reduced his height.

An alarm bell begins to ring at the back of her mind, cop instincts registering how his skilful manipulations have charmed her, drawn her in. Fuck, she was going to have to watch out for him.

She was going to have to watch herself, too.

He loved it.

Eccentric, unconventional identity established, he was giving it free rein. Each case brought him new ways to play. He undermined authority, deflated pomposity, charmed and bumbled and stuttered his way through interviews, snooped and pried into personal effects, fidgeted and fiddled with treasured possessions. All this physical activity was punctuated by periods of stillness, while his razor sharp mind got busy instead. Busy with collating information, assessing relevance, re evaluating hypotheses, identifying patterns, further research. At crimes scenes, he barely acknowledged the living and flouted every sense of propriety, as he straddled corpses, incubus –like, eager to touch, to feel, to smell. And the icing on the cake? He got results.

The exhilaration inflamed his other desires, his other needs. He became both the sweetheart and the scourge of the Support Staff, devastatingly sexy and charming in pursuit, cold and indifferent post conquest. And on other, more intimate occasions, the predator stalked...

He had always been a monster, but it had never been so obvious.

She hated it, hated him.

Hated how he overwhelmed everyone with his presence, how he swept her along until he became bored, or distracted, or too lost in his own internal dialogue and then he just zoned out, leaving her to pick up the slack. Hated how he would re-emerge, charging off at a tangent, leaving her floundering in his wake. Maybe it was his observation, his insight, that cracked the case, but it was her legwork that provided strong enough evidence to secure a conviction. But it was never acknowledged, not even expected.

The frustration was leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, as bitter as the bile that had risen the first time she had seen him handle a corpse. She had seen the eagerness as he crouched, broad shoulders and black coat making her think of a huge vulture picking at carrion. She had seen him reverently cradle the head, gently smooth back the hair, latex clad fingers probing, exploring. And then he had bent down, even closer if that was possible, and for fucks sake, he had sniffed the gaping wound. Not a tentative, cautious sniff, but inhaling deeply, eyes closing as if savouring the aroma.

Grimacing at the memory, she made her decision. Inserting a piece of paper into the typewriter, she began to write her request for a new partner. In the meantime, she would fight back, Eames style.

Another crime scene and again he all but shoves her out of the way, keen to get at the corpse. But this time she's ready.

"There's no hurry, he's not going anywhere."

He pauses, shoots her a look and opens his mouth to retort. She turns her back on him and begins to question the building manager, who is ashen faced and shaking following his grim discovery. After eliciting a few pertinent details, she hands him over to the care of one of the uniforms.

She moves across the room to stand beside the body.

"So what gems of knowledge does the great Detective Goren have for us today? That the deceased embroidered throw pillows, favoured salt on his food and walked with a slight limp on rainy days? Or merely that he was beaten to death with a blunt object sometime last night?"

He raises his head to look at her, really look at her, as if seeing her for the first time. She looks back, her hazel eyes challenging, but softens the impact of her sharp words with a raised eyebrow and a half smile. He swallows, ducks his head and hesitantly begins to speak, to explain, to share his discoveries.

And so it begins.


	3. Union

Golden rays of late afternoon sunlight pass through the huge arched windows, reflect off wooden tables burnished by a thousand elbows. Above him, rows of chandeliers flank painted skies and ornate gilded mouldings edge the ceiling. The hushed voices and the whisper of turning pages reinforce the atmosphere of reverence. New York Public Library; this is his church, his sanctuary. Ostensibly he is here for research, but in reality, he is regrouping.

He had taken it too far, he's aware of that now. He had become as obnoxious as a precocious wild child, become _L'Enfant terrible._ He hadn't realised the extent of this egocentrism until that first pointed barb from Eames, until Deakin's comment about right brains and police procedure. Mum and Dad, tightening the reins. He grins at the image his mind is conjuring, prompting the plump redhead opposite to flick him a quick smile in return. He nods in acknowledgement, then looks back at his book and turns a page for the sake of verisimilitude. 'Tightening the reins' was inaccurate; it is more like gentle guidance.

Most of this guidance is coming from Eames.

Alex Eames, who is as short and as no-nonsense as her name suggests. He makes a mental note to never say that out loud. It has taken him years of observation and practice to learn what is acceptable to voice, what is liable to offend, to disgust. Even so, he often adopts a stammer or pauses, mid- speech; giving him time to double check he is being appropriate. This is what Eames is doing for him now. Every snarky comment, every raised eyebrow, every sigh, every exclamation of "Oh brother!" are all clues.

He doesn't always pay attention. Carver threatened to have his badge the next time he stepped over the line. He knows he'd gone too far but it had felt righteous. He idealises family. The Norman Rockwell or Cleaver vision of a life he has never experienced. A life like that could have made him complete, whole. Instead, he has this void at the very centre of himself, a black hole that needs pain, suffering, fear and death to keep it at bay, to prevent it consuming him. He has appointed himself the zealous guardian of that family idyll but, uncomfortably self aware, he knows this is his way of trying to save the small boy, the innocent, he had once been.

The sun has set; the windows are as dark as his thoughts. It is time to go.

It's a fine evening. The walk back to 1PP will take him an hour, but he has been sitting in the library for a while and he feels the need to move. Remembering his earlier thoughts about Eames, he calls her, advises her of his ETA and offers to collect food on the way. He hears the surprise in her voice, the pleasure and knows he has done the right thing. He adds 'keep in touch' and 'bring food or drink' to the latest mental guidebook he is compiling. He has many of these, covering a range of roles and circumstances and he constantly revises them.

Inhaling deeply, he instinctively identifies and catalogues the scents filling his nostrils. He feels the _frisson_, as this walk in the dark evokes memories of other night time excursions but it is mere titillation, not burning desire. He likes this duality, enjoys the way his secret life is mirrored in the investigative process. Stalking through the evidence to identify the quarry, the manoeuvring and manipulations to corner them, using his words to coax surrender or provoke conflict. The exhilaration when he breaks them.

Oblivious to the startled looks, he laughs out loud as he remembers Talbot. What a silly _little _man. That had been fun, pushing his buttons, almost too easy. Perhaps that was why he had to go little further, push a little harder, provoke the rage. It had given him an excuse to get physical, to throw a sop to the beast within. He had blurred his boundaries, lost it a little but had managed to rein it in. Eames, though, she had been good, had maintained her composure throughout. She had added a layer to the set- up; made possible the wife's damning statement. His mind explores this other duality, not competitive but complementary.

He opens the door to the deli and orders their food.

It is quieter in the Squad room now. After the call out, the crime scene and the witness interviews, she had felt a small measure of relief when she had dropped Bobby off at the library. Clutching his leather binder tightly as he ran up the steps two at a time, he had looked like an excited schoolboy on the first day of a new semester. She grins at the memory. It felt good to have the space, the opportunity to review the statements, draw up a time line and write up the reports, free from distraction.

He is distracting, on several levels. There's the pen tapping, knee bouncing, fidgety level that she has discovered is easily countered with a well aimed wad of paper. Then there's the sudden explosion of ideas, the torrent of words that usually follow a period of introspection. She is learning to predict these, at least now he is sharing them. His sheer presence is a distraction that is harder to deal with. His many facets are unsettling, but she is beginning to get a feel for which version he will use in any given circumstance.

Be honest, she silently admonishes herself, you enjoy it. And she does. He provokes and challenges and undermines people in ways she would never dare. "Bad guys do what good guys dream" he had said. For her, it was wishful thinking. From him, it seemed like boasting or a declaration of intent.

And that is the hardest distraction of them all. The element of danger is almost subliminal. Most of the time it is obscured by smoke and mirrors but it could be seen when he blatantly flouts the rules, defies authority or in the calculating way he breaks a suspect. It is provocative, _he_ is provocative and it is compelling.

Her stomach growls, a reminder that lunch was a distant memory. The offer of food had surprised her. Hell, the call had surprised her. They were hitting their stride as an investigative team, realising their strengths and weakness and adjusting methods to accommodate them. She was less frustrated and he was calmer. She had withdrawn her request for a new partner. But she had been on the job long enough to know that that a true partnership was more than efficiency, more than getting results. There needed to be co-operation, consideration, mutuality.

There were signs; today's call, their shared outrage at Carver's broken promise to a conflicted wife and mother, that dreadful anti abortion sniper. Remembering, she shudders. Tensions had run high. Abortion was an emotive subject and everyone believed their opinion was the right one. All except Bobby. His initial declaration had been flippant, but when pressed, he had provided a measured and sensitive insight. Later, exhausted and drained, she had blurted out "Promise me a margarita when this is all over." Seeming strangely vulnerable, stripped of his usual Armani, he had looked up from his notes and given her such a sweet gentle smile.

She wishes he had made that promise.

Tantalising aromas of hot food assault her and she looks up to see him proudly presenting the grease stained bag. He is beaming and she realises that she is pleased to see him, is looking forward to sharing notes and food with him.

She returns his smile. "Thanks, partner."


	4. The Women

"Bitch!"

He slams the man's head against the wall.

"Bitch!" Crack. "Bitch!" Thump. "Bitch!"

The sounds are less distinct as the skull collapses. The man is a substitute; the focus of this fury is Nicole. Her beguiling beauty, charisma, overt sexuality, all carefully constructed to conceal the yawning chasm within. They had faced off in the interrogation room, trading punishing blows. The beast within her howled and he felt his own uncoil, respond in recognition. Each carefully worded and deliberately voiced barb aimed to cause maximum damage, they had slashed and parried. Victim or victimiser? Rapist or ravished? Predator or prey? They switched roles, paraded their skills. This was more than a fight; this was flirtation, foreplay but no finale.

Flayed, gutted and inflamed, he had been unable to resist the need. He had found the violence he sought, but looking at the destruction held in his arms, he realises that tonight it is not enough. There is still hunger, still need, the need for something more...

It's 3 am, for fucks sake! She ties the sash on her robe and pads into the hall, stands on tiptoe to peer through the peephole, knows this would be no casual visitor. She is right, there is nothing casual about Bobby, black clad and grim faced as he leans on her buzzer. She stifles her surprise as she admits him.

Large hands grasp the sides of her head as his mouth descends; lips urgent, hungry, devour hers. He assaults her senses. She tastes the whiskey, hears his soft, frantic moans. She sees his eyes darken, smells his musk, the odours of outdoors he has brought with him and the faint hint of something metallic...blood? But mostly, overwhelmingly, she feels. It is all hard: hard wall at her back, hard body pinning hers, hard teeth nip her skin and hard hands maul her breasts. Hard denim abrades bare skin as his hard cock pushes against her, into her.

Now it is all heat. Hot breath in her ear, hot tongue invades her mouth, hot body engulfs hers as hot flesh drives into her. He thrusts deeply, with urgency. Rhythm, angle and depth fuel the fire as she feels the crescendo build within her.

She shatters.

He thrusts on; an edge of desperation. The soft moans become harsh grunts. His fingers tangle in her hair as he yanks it, the sharp pain punctures her euphoria. She realises she is uncomfortable, she is sore and she wants him to stop. She wonders if he will, if he can. Wonders unnecessarily; his hips stutter, he groans deeply. He looks at her with flat, empty eyes as his long finger traces the contour of her cheek. With quick, precise motions he withdraws, tidies himself and leaves.

As the latch snicks shut, she slides down the wall, arms cradle her trembling knees. Despite her body wracking climax, she feels unsatisfied, empty and desolate. She lays her head on her folded arms and weeps.

He has no guidebook for this, no handy "how to" list. What do you do when you fuck your partner with a need born out of rage, of pain? What do you do when you bury yourself deep within her, trying to reach the very heart of her in a desperate attempt to connect, to make a bridge to the human soul? What do you do when, the next morning, you face her across the clutter of your desk? He studies her for clues but she is a cipher. Lacking direction, guidance; he does nothing.

Nothing! No comment, no gesture. If it wasn't for her aching thigh muscles and the slight discomfort felt when she eased herself into the chair, she might think it had been some nightmare fantasy. But he had come to her, come in her. He had silently sucked her dry and now sits there, just as silently. Petulantly, she decides that she will not be the first to acknowledge it. He wants it to be business as usual? He's got it. But it'll never happen again.

But she knows it is not as easy as that. She is aware that since becoming a widow, she has felt her life lacked purpose, lacked meaning. Yes, there was the job. It consumes most of her time and her energy and she loves it but she had once known more, and she wants that feeling back. With brutal honesty, she admits to herself the dream that Bobby would be that meaning, that purpose. After last night's unsettling wordless encounter, she realises now she is casting her seed on barren land.

That's an interesting turn of phrase, considering her recent conversations with her sister. Maybe replacing a lost man is not the best way, the only way, to seek fulfilment... Her mind explores new possibilities, fills with new dreams and she shoves a stack of manila folders across the desk to Bobby. He reaches for them eagerly, as if grasping at a life line she has thrown. And perhaps, with her silence, with her peace offering, she has. His pen begins to tap out a complicated rhythm. Yep, business as usual.

"It's about yearning. He misses his partner."

As he speaks the words, he feels their resonance. He had not known, did not understand. He only realises now with her absence; her impact, her importance.

He is sure Bishop is a competent detective. After all she is here, in MCS. But she is _wrong. _He knows Bishop is aware of it. Hell, he hasn't exactly been subtle because in his mind she is simply "not Eames" and hasn't even merited a list, let alone a guidebook. He is off balance and out of kilter, the myriad tiny "not Eames" moments fuelling his frustration.

His loss of control during the confrontation with that bigoted father had shocked him. It usually took weeks, sometimes months before the need became so strong that it bled out into his daily life. Not even that second encounter with Nicole had pushed him that far, that fast. Then again, she was no longer an unknown quantity and he had been bolstered by Eames at his side.

But it had been only days this time.

And yes, he had killed again, swiftly with his blade.

Not like _that_ time. Never again like _that _time. A stillborn attempt to achieve some connection, some meaning; it had been doomed by darker desires. She did not know how close he had come, how close to being the end of her. She did not know how another part of him had died that night, instead of her. He imagines a permanent state of "not Eames" and shudders.

A sudden insight shocks him with its simplicity.

She is absent and he... he is lonely.


	5. Honeymoon

She had made the right decision.

Looking down at the sleeping child held in her arms, she feels a sense of contentment, of completion. Amazed that such a perfect being could have been created, nurtured to fruition within her. Awed by the innocence of a new life she had carried with her as she had continued to investigate the desperate, the depraved and the delusional. Pregnant murderers and psychic frauds, hit men and haters, conmen and cop killers: this baby had been with her every step and had emerged into the world bringing nothing but hope and joy.

It had been difficult to finally go on leave. She had watched in amusement as the new detective tried to deal with Bobby, remembering her own fraught attempts but had admired Bishop's patience and perseverance. Had even been envious as she watched him dash out of the squad room, hot on the trail of a new lead; Bishop on his heels, uncomprehending but caught up in his excitement. She had missed the rhythm and routines of work, missed how the dullest day of paperwork could suddenly explode into a flurry of action triggered by a simple call. She missed the Captain's dry remarks, missed checking out the ADA's latest tie and missed the gossip in the restroom. Hell, she even missed the lousy coffee.

She missed him.

Six weeks enforced leave with no newborn to occupy her with constant demands had left her with a lot of time for reflection. A lot of that time seemed to be spent thinking about him; his contradictions, his complexities. She wondered about a man who could show such empathy, such a depth of understanding for a person one minute then brutally break them the next. She wondered about a man who could be so gentle then become so terrifying: who could slip into a different persona with the ease he slipped on his coat. There were a few clues, precious titbits of information garnered, ironically, as he tried to get suspect to reveal their own motivations, their own soft underbelly.

Sunshine and storms, smoke and mirrors; would she ever see the real Robert Goren? She remembers that thrilling, chilling night. Perhaps she already had...

Her nephew stirs, bringing her thoughts back to the present and sweeter things. She is glad to be back at work, and judging by his reaction, Bobby is pleased as well. The Goren Show is back in town and she is now co- starring. She laughs as she thinks of Donny the dancer, how they had tag – teamed him, much to the bemusement of Carver. Their partnership has become a duet, a perfectly choreographed performance: picking up the on the subtle cues from each other but not without the occasional misstep. She'd been sceptical of his analysis of Marjorie following a single dance and hurt by Nicole's barb about eggs for hire. He'd become strangely involved with Nelda and had gone to bat for a sicko like Tagman.

He had visited Eames in the hospital and it had been awkward, difficult. His mental guidelines (bring flowers/fruit, express hope for speedy recovery, don't fiddle with the medical equipment, don't poke or sniff wounds) had seemed inadequate. She was out of context and he was at a loss.

But now she was back at Major Case and he was using his "Guidebook – Eames, partner" to maximum effect; plundering its contents for ways to demonstrate his pleasure at her return. He made her laugh as he played the fool, provided fodder for her snark and a constant supply of her favourite drinks and food. He engineered opportunities to role play and hammed it up. He brought all his carefully cultivated, intentionally disarming quirks and tics into play. He revelled in the _rightness_ of her, in the seamless way they worked the cases together, in being the reason for her smile. His belly was still knotted with tension, but it was no longer frustration and rage. Instead it was an energising intense excitement, fuelled by her presence, her enjoyment of him; bled off by frantic anonymous sex.

But he is aware of an underlying hollowness.

The scales have dropped from his eyes and he is haunted by the realisation of his loneliness. Yes, he can drink beer and shoot the breeze with Lewis at the body shop, debate etymology with linguist Stephen, play poker with Irene or use his charm to gain a companion for the night. He has even learned how to be an effective partner, thanks to Eames. These things are all pleasurable, exciting even, and he enjoys having these people in his life. But he is not truly known by them. His own instincts of self preservation ensure this.

Nicole knows: knows the pain and the rage, the hate and the fury, the emptiness. He had seen her trying, in her own way, to fill the chasm with something more substantial than death. But they are too competitive, too adversarial even in truce. Boundaries forged in that first encounter too entrenched now to let either admit their true vulnerability...if she is still alive. He suspects she is.

Nelda, though... He truly was envious of the feelings her husband invoked in her, of their intensity. Being on the receiving end of just a small portion of that devotion seduced him into thinking that may be her need to give was as necessary, as overwhelming, as his was to consume; that somehow this could fulfil them both. But she had misread his attention, and he knew he would never be more than a footnote to her primary obsession; her husband.

He didn't mean for her to see... see his desperation, see his need; to see _him_.

And then along had come John with his pitiful life, his pitiless actions. Poignant recognition drove him to spare John's life. Howling emptiness drove him out that night to take a life of his own.

John had died, anyway.

He recognises that this volatile state is unsustainable. His needs are driving him into ever more desperate acts. He has to adapt, to apply his intellect to the problem. Careful study is needed. He considers his most abundant source of material and creates a new mental file.

"Guidebook –Eames, person."


	6. Confessions

"It's a letter I wrote to my superior officer five years ago..."

He can see the tears in her eyes, can hear the catch in her voice, but he is struggling to divine the cause, the meaning. During his early days in Major Case his behaviour had been erratic and anti- social, his interrogations had been volatile and bizarre. She was telling the truth, so why was that so distressing? He is puzzled by this rare overt display of emotion.

Sure, this case had been tough; the Judge had been brutal in his retaliation. They had all come under attack: Carver's competence, Logan's temper, Barek's disillusionment, his ... A hot wave of fury floods him as he thinks of his mother and he swallows it down, damming it deep within himself. _Not now... _

"...an ethical person, and an effective police officer."

Ethical, effective? Only because of her. He had studied her reactions, noted her responses, used her as road map to adjust and adapt his behaviour, to hone his skill. Through her, he was starting to understand people. Not the killers; Bobby the adult had an intimate knowledge of them, their rage, their pain, their damage. Not the victims; Bobby the child knew powerlessness, abandonment, fear. Instead she was shining a light on the myriad minute daily connections that make up that alien wondrous complexity of being human. She was showing him how.

And now he understands. He takes, but she has not been passive. She is upset because she has invested in their partnership, in him, and now all that effort, all that work is threatened by a half forgotten letter written half a decade ago. She thinks she has failed him.

"I'm sorry, Bobby." She stands; awaiting condemnation, hand stroking her bared throat, subconsciously signalling submission. He gropes for an appropriate response. She had merely spoken the truth so he confirms it.

"I am an acquired taste." He turns away, but senses she is expecting more, needs more. "I'm lucky you withdrew your request." He knows he is still lacking, but is uncomfortable, unsure. At a loss, he leaves, his mind filled with the image of her tears.

It had been insidious.

The depression had seeped in slowly, a gradual erosion of all that felt good. Her appetite had waned and her weight had dropped. She pushed herself harder, faster in punishing runs; desperately seeking the endorphin rush to alleviate the malaise. She was getting by at work; strung out on sugar and caffeine, wrapped in comfortable sweaters, long sleeves concealing thin hands and ravaged cuticles.

She hates the way she now has to struggle to maintain her professionalism. She closes her eyes against the memory of that first public loss of composure. On the witness stand, of all places. Feels again the bitter sting of tears, the bitter sting of humiliation, the failure. And it had got worse. She had allowed herself to be manipulated by that "method actor" psycho wannabe, had even aggressively pushed a pathetic needy girl into a false confession.

And to top it all, she had shot and killed a man on the courthouse steps.

Tears and tantrums, just like a toddler, just like her nephew. She thinks of soothing kisses, of the comfort of being held, the affirmation of physical contact. Not from a stranger. Not from her family, either. The Eames' are pragmatic people, affection shown in humour, not touch. She thinks instead of broad shoulders and brown eyes, of arms long enough to hold the world at bay. He had come to her with his need.

It was her turn.

The harsh knock at his door disrupts the delicate and intricate melody. He is enjoying his Sunday; some jazz, the papers, good coffee. With resignation, and a little resentment, he answers the door. It is Eames. She cuts short his half formed query with a curt "Don't ask" and pushes past him. Raising his hands in a mock defensive gesture, he doesn't. He motions instead towards the coffee pot. She shakes her head and strides into the main room.

Following, he throws himself into the large leather chair, a little irritated at her intrusion. Raises his eyebrow and tilts his head questioningly, feels hesitant lips meet his in reply. He draws her down into his lap, hears her sigh as her body settles against his, as soft kisses are exchanged. He feels her fingers gently play with the curls at the nape of his neck, feels the shiver in his spine. His eyes close as he inhales her scent; shampoo, soap, laundry detergent. Fresh and clean. The kisses deepen as his hands explore her curves, his cock stirring as she moves against him.

His excitement flares, igniting the need within him and he grasps her tightly, tastes blood as his teeth nip at her bottom lip. She freezes. Sudden images of other nights, of _that_ night, flash in his mind. He roughly pushes her aside, strides to the bedroom, slams the door.

"Nothing's right anymore, Bobby."

He leans against the wooden door. The quiet words come from the other side; a couple of inches and a thousand miles away.

"The colour has been sucked from the world. Everywhere I look, all I see is pain and death and despair. All the things I ever knew, believed about myself, I now doubt. I look at photos and don't recognise the prom queen, the cadet, the daughter, the bride anymore."

He holds his breath as he listens to the siren call of her misery.

She continues.

"I have used my rage to provoke, to persecute a suspect. I have used my partner to quell my loneliness, my need and I have killed."

In the most courageous moment of his life, his voice a barely audible whisper, he replies:

"Me too."

But she has not heard. Her footsteps tap across the kitchen, the hall. His front door gently closes.


	7. Commitment

Voicing her fears, her despair, had helped.

She had regained some of her equilibrium but some things were still not right. Deakins was gone, and so was Carver. Although there had been conflict and confrontation with these men, there had also been support, a sense of solidarity. Now there was this new Captain, eager to justify his promotion, to wield his authority. "Keep him in check." Hah! It had been good, sharing that with Bobby; watching his smiling response had prompted a grin of her own.

Better than sharing other things with Bobby.

Passion and pain. Could he experience one without inflicting the other? Perhaps not, but it had brought her to her senses, highlighting her folly. But she had been unable to leave in silence, without explanation, as he had done. Back at work and business as usual, but there had been subtle differences. He had seemed subdued, dampened...

Not like the way he had lit up with the Gages. Eyes shining with pride, eager to show off his brilliant friends, it was a side of him she had rarely seen. Looking good, he was relaxed and comfortable, shirt neck open, large frame carrying his additional weight well. Ironic that as stress and depression had stolen pounds and robbed her of femininity, middle age and Italian genes added pounds to him yet increased his masculinity. Envy had shot through her as she watched the warm greeting Bobby had shared with his mentor. She was jealous of the affection but suspicious of the source.

But these thoughts were distractions. Distracting her from the here, the now. The burning in her shoulders, cramps in her calves, the quivering of her abdominal muscles. She thought she had known pain, fear and despair but compared to this, it had been a mere appetiser. She realises that her thoughts of Bobby, how she had turned to him for salvation, are an expression of her desire for a white knight to come to her rescue...

Fuck that!

And there it was... what had been missing; her power, her self- determination. She had become passive, looking to others for answers and that had perpetuated the depression. But her nephew, her partner; they were not the answer. Yes, she was a "damsel in distress". Yes, she knew they would be working tirelessly to find her. But she could do more than just hang here, waiting, filled with self pity. Oh, she could do so much more...

Nothing's right anymore. She had spoken the truth. Deakins gone, Carver gone; then Eames had...gone.

He had wondered if this is how it would end for him. Face down on the asphalt, guns pointed at his head, the sirens and the screams. Maybe, but not today. Today the target had been Declan. The white hot rage had surged, flooded his mind just as the sweat soaked his shirt as he had grappled mentally and physically with his mentor, his betrayer. This man, the one man he felt most unguarded with, his father figure, the closest thing he had to a friend. But she was his, she was _Eames._ Declan may have been his mentor, his guide to the degenerate, the damaged but she was his archetype of the whole, the healthy, the human.

He had been oblivious to Declan's attempts to keep him focussed, to analyse, to "play." Hurt muddled his thinking, impotence fuelled his ire, the beast roiled and raged in his belly and he had never been so close to relinquishing control, to allowing the monster to consume him.

"You look like hell."

That was where he had been but now she's here, alive. Not slain, not dead in the trunk of a car.

"I'm sorry."

Sorry that I failed you, that I drew you into the circle of the damned and made you their target. I'm sorry that I let the beast rule when you needed the man, I'm sorry...

His kill that night was a bloody sacrifice, an offering in thanks for her life.

A new day and things were right.

Fresh suit, clear mind, calm body. And Eames, safe. He analyses the scene, feels the pieces drop into place and plans.

She was him. Parents lost to them, hers to suicide and other men's insanity; his to addiction and a more personal madness. They had raised themselves amidst the chaos in their unconventional homes. Their morals, their boundaries distorted, warped by the foundry of their childhood. Their shared desire to be recognised, understood, _known. _Their shared need, shared hunger to fill the chasm, to block out the rage, the pain with another's pain, another's death.

But he was far more accomplished, as a killer and as a profiler. He gently led her to confession, skilfully steered her to reveal her need for her father's attention. A father's attention he had stolen from her and greedily consumed.

He blinks, his eyes uncomfortably full of unshed tears. Tears! He realises he is mourning; mourning the loss of a little girl and all she could have been. Mourning the loss of a little boy and full of sorrow at what he had become.

He is keeping vigil.

The atmosphere is hushed, the lighting low. The beeping monitors mark out the time passing as he sits, watching over her sleeping form. He is utterly still, lost deep in introspection; his mind sorting, reorganising, reviewing recent events. He compares the available data against his 'Guidebook – Eames, person' and judges himself seriously lacking. He can observe and collate, he can study, research and imitate but it is not enough. The words of Marcus Aurelius rise unbidden to his mind: "Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one."

Be one. As simple and as terrifying as that.

The basic, most fundamental difference between himself and a good man? A good man does not kill out of rage, out of pain, out of hunger, out of need. And so the way forward is clear. He rises, looks long and hard at his hope, his inspiration and commits.

He will stop.


	8. Conflict

His mother has been slipping away from him his whole life.

Slipping away and he is unable to let her go, cannot let her go. She is the Blessed Mother, that Catholic personification of redemption and salvation that he had grown up with. In her, he has invested all his hope, his desire for absolution; to be reborn, whole. And this is his white whale, his folly. He worships the ideal, but the reality is far from that.

The reality is that she is flawed, and these flaws, these imperfections had ravaged his childhood. From her he had learned fear, had learned pain. She had taught him about rejection, instability, abandonment. She had decimated his childhood, and defined his manhood. He idolises her and hates her, a conflict that brings with it guilt, knowing that she is not to blame, that she is a victim too. And just as schizophrenia had stolen her mind, lymphoma is now stealing her body. She really is slipping away...

So now he has to face the loss of his parent, so soon after facing the potential loss of his partner; must now face losing one hope of salvation just as a new source is discovered. "Transference Be Bop "playing its seductive but dangerous melody. He adds 'she is not your mother' to his "Guidebook – Eames, person" and grins wryly.

She is worried.

Now the fog of depression has lifted, she can see the change in him, subtle but obvious to someone who has spent over six years as his partner. He had offered to pick her up after her appointment with the shrink, had enquired how it was going, had seemed apologetic that he had been called to a case. Small social niceties that are surprising coming from a man who usually only bothered with such things when they served his own objectives. If there is a hidden agenda, he is concealing it well.

But some of the other changes are unsettling. His dramatic, flamboyant interrogation style has all but gone, replaced by a more measured but no less brilliant performance. In the aftermath he seems saddened, deflated; not jubilant, triumphant. His panicky, flustered confrontation with that suicidal cop bothers her most. In the past, it would have been a deft demonstration of his skills, his talents, his flair, but she had seen little of that. Had seen, instead, a frightened man; scared of losing his partner, his mom, his life... During the ride back to 1PP she had asked if he was alright but silence had been the only reply.

And that was one thing that had not changed.

In true Bobby style she had learned of his mom's cancer during a suspect interview, the same way she had learned of the schizophrenia. He still does not talk to her directly about his thoughts, his feelings, only shares them obliquely via interrogation, interviews, casework. And it is maddening.

Especially now.

Because never before has his personal life intruded so much into his professional life. She has tried to be supportive, to understand. Has covered for him, has given him space. But he keeps on shutting her out, blanking her, ignoring her. She can see his frustration building, the tension almost tangible, is not surprised as he provokes the Commissioner but is stunned at his arrogant reply, at his violent temper tantrum. Unable to carry on like this, she challenges him:

"What the hell was that, Bobby? You want to throw it all away?"

And at last she gets a response.

"Back off."

The elevator doors close and he lets out a harsh exasperated sigh. His jaw aches from biting back the anger, his throat hurts from swallowing it down and his body screams with the tension of trying to contain it. He just wants to work the fucking case! But they will not let him be. Eames with her intrusive, unwelcome sympathy; Ross vacillating between support, sarcasm and superiority and that sanctimonious shithead of a Commissioner... But worst of all is his mother.

That demanding, wheedling, manipulative bitch... that... that... scared and lonely and confused woman.

He looks down at the trash can, dented and deformed by the barrage of kicks he has inflicted upon it, at the detritus spilling from the gash in the bloated garbage bag. His latest "victim." He lets out a snort of derision. It is not enough, he knows this, but it will have to suffice. At least the urgency, the need has abated. He fishes around in his jacket pockets, finds the pack and lights up a cigarette, inhaling deeply. The acrid smoke burns his throat, scours a pathway to his lungs, fighting the fire within.

He had known it would be difficult, just not how difficult it would be on a day to day, minute by minute basis. Because it was not just as simple as "thou shall not kill." He walks the constant fine line between bleeding off the tension without inflaming the beast, of finding gratification without triggering the need. Interrogations are particularly difficult; he has to force himself to remain seated, to talk slowly and softly to avoid invoking the hunger, the desire to cause pain. He knows just one sip of that intoxicating elixir will be his undoing. He is avoiding sex for similar reasons; instead masturbation is becoming as necessary and as perfunctory as taking a piss. His tie feels constricting and he sheds it at every opportunity, he consumes large rich meals and now has a pack a day habit.

At that thought he lights up another cigarette and heads back to 1PP. This is just a case, one of a thousand others. But he only has one mother; one mother and limited time to resolve the conflict of saint versus sinner, to gain his absolution. He will see this case to the end and then...

So he pushes on, ignoring Eames' barbed comment. He pushes on, admonishing her unhelpful intervention during the interrogation with a sharp retort of his own. He pushes on until at last there is a confession. A confession and condescending congratulations from the Captain. It is the last straw.

"You can save it, alright? I'm leaving. You wanna fire me? Fire me. I don't care..."


	9. A Death in the Family

Brother? This is his brother?

She sits in the SUV and watches them; a study in contrasts. Bobby, heavier these days, but still elegant in his dark wool coat; Frank is shorter, thinner, scruffier, shivering in a lightweight jacket and that ridiculous knit cap. Watches as they talk, smiles at Bobby's burst of laughter in response to a comment by Frank, feels a pang of pity as Bobby hands over his money, his coat, his card. Pity for Frank, who is cold, estranged and only now learning of his mother's illness. But pity, too, for Bobby and this is a new experience for her.

Her mind puzzles over this. He has inspired or provoked various emotions in her over the years, from admiration to anger, from humour to hate, from lust to loathing. He goes from being a source of pleasure to being a pain in the ass in a heartbeat. She realises these feelings are a result of his actions, his behaviour, but this latest is inspired by him, Bobby the man.

When the hell had that happened? When had she started seeing past all his distractions and diversions and began to see him? _When he began showing you..._and now she sees it. She had been looking for the overt, the obvious but it was there in his small considerations, and in the way he now makes and holds eye contact with her. It was there in the way she had known_, felt_, his anger and his disgust at that family's outrageous treatment of their mother. She thinks back to the Pagolis investigation. At the bar she had ordered a drink, even though she was on duty, a rare Bobby like moment of her own. He had asked "Are we alright?" in a harsh, almost abrupt, manner. She had thought he was asking if their conflict about the course of the investigation was a problem but now she wonders...

At the morgue, when he gives the rambling, mumbling justification of his brother's actions, she discovers that she doesn't want him to see her pity, cannot look him in the eye.

He had taken some time off after that whole Thanksgiving fiasco; taken some time to settle his mother into the routines of the new hospital, to settle himself into his coping routines. He is grimly aware these are not all healthy. Cigarettes and cholesterol laden food, joyless jerking off in hot showers; his mind shies away from the image of blood swirling down the drain as his razor slices pale skin on his thigh. He has shed a lot of his carefully crafted persona; taking a back seat in interrogations, minimising his contact with corpses , avoiding the sweet snick of his knife blade. He is concentrating his efforts instead on maintaining some sort of equilibrium. He feels stripped back, laid bare and finds himself looking to Eames for reassurance, validation. Not out loud, of course but searching her eyes, silently beseeching. Silently, except for that one time in the bar...

It felt like serendipity.

Seeing his brother there on the street he could understand why people believed in fate, destiny, or a higher power. His latest visit to his mother had been a trial. He is trying to do the right thing, to be a good son, to be recognised. The sharp words and sharper blows she aimed at the doctor stirred painful memories of similar attacks he had endured as a boy but all she could think of was Frank...

And here was his opportunity, the chance to do right by her. He had wrapped Frank in his coat, in his kindness, in his care; overt demonstrations of the good man. He had wrapped him like a gift he could proudly present to his mother on her birthday but had forgotten amidst the hope and the promise, the very nature of Frank. He sits, quiet and subdued by her bed, the carefully edited story of Frank his true gift to her. He listens to her talk of his luck and Frank's return to God and silently screams.

Later, as he pulls back the white sheet covering the corpse, he realises he had hoped it would be Frank. He hastily covers his disappointment with a flurry of words and is glad, for once, that Eames will not look at him.

He was in his element.

She watches him match his wits against Brady, watches them toy, play with each other, and watches every tease, every piece of dangled bait. This case is tailor made for him, a massive puzzle to solve. But she senses it is just a little too perfect, that there is some other factor at play. Realises too late, her interventions ineffectual, realises that Brady has baited the hook too well.

The utter contempt in Bobby's response to Ross ordering him off the case chills her. Chills her and saddens her. She doesn't presume to know what he needs; who he is. She only knows from experience that he will not, cannot walk away from this investigation. She only knows after all this time that he has just begun to open up to her. She thinks of his nervous laugh when he revealed his mom wanted to meet her. She had been stunned that he had shared the details of his mom's call; a first for him. It feels awkward, unsettling, somewhat disturbing but she realises she wants more. Metaphorically she dons her shining armour, chases after the Captain and goes to her partner's defence.

Another confrontation at the elevator, but this time he does not cut her off. Instead he looks at her, long and hard, hope softening the hard flint of determination she sees in his eyes.

"You're just going to have to trust me..." She realises she does.

He'd been enjoying it.

Perhaps a little bit too much, he admits. It excited him, thrilled him to go head to head with Brady, and reminded him of his encounters with Nicole. He was careful to maintain a blank face as he discussed the feel of a victim's skin, had to cover his mouth to conceal the lascivious grin as he watched Brady's re enactment. He felt alive, vital, and potent. His mother hailed him as a prodigal son, he'd shrugged of Frank's self interest with a roll of his eyes, had sparred with Brady and revelled in the jolt of electricity that seemed to pass between them as Brady grabbed his hand.

He'd been seduced.

The comment about being close to his family alarms him. Eames had sensed it, had tried to intervene just as she was doing now. He sits bemused as Eames and Brady play tug of war with his binder, with him...listens with mounting horror to the drip, drip, drip of clues... struggles to maintain his composure under the cold hard smugness of Brady's gaze.

And now the urge to know is as powerful as the urge to kill. He channels all his feelings into the single minded pursuit of the truth, using his professional skills on his mother, his brother and a far less professional attitude with his boss. He is more lenient with Eames; she had seen the danger, had tried to help, had gone out on a limb for him. Knowing that he cannot risk her presence, does not want her as a witness to this final confrontation he is more direct and frank with her than he has ever been. He asks for her trust, and it is given.

He sits, listening to Brady taunt him. He is feeding his rage, feasting on the hurt, the pain but this time it is his own hurt, his own pain. He explodes, driving Brady against the wall, feels the throbbing pulse in the thin neck as his hands squeeze, feels the wiry body squirm under his, hears the final taunt.

"You have it in you."

Images flash through his mind; other bodies pinned against a wall, Eames pinned against a wall, small but hugely influential women in hospital beds, whispered confessions and silent vows.

He tears himself away, prostrates himself across the cold steel table and howls out his anguish.

"Mr Goren... it's time."

The bed is stripped of her body just like the room is stripped of her life. In the end there had been no redemption, no salvation; instead there had been truth, an apology. He had looked down at the small hand held in his and had accepted her offering.

"I'd just like to stay here a little while."

He needs this time, this space. He is trying to find a way to bridge the void within, to reach across the decades. He is trying to find a way to comfort the little boy who has just lost his mom...


	10. Breakdown

He'd been glad of the call.

He'd been ignoring the phone, ignoring everything. In the days following the funeral, he'd become an automaton. Hours had passed as he'd sit, inert and numb, until his body reminded him of the basic acts needed to sustain life. Daily rituals performed by rote then back to nothingness... But this was Eames calling, asking, needing him and he now had a reason to re enter the world.

Not the easiest case to come back to. He would have preferred an intricate puzzle, opportunities for research, something to lose himself in. Instead he is tangled in a web made of his partner's grief, officer's loyalty and defence of one of their own, power and politics. Too many conflicts of interest, too many needs and he does not possess the capacity, the depth of understanding to accommodate them all.

She is his priority.

The case gets his skill, his intellect but nothing more; he doesn't even bother to deploy his mental censor in the presence of his bosses. She gets his attention, his clumsy and inadequate attempts at care. He hangs back at the funeral to give her space, drives her home, struggles to say something of meaning and is astonished when she responds with honesty, with openness, sharing a piece of herself.

Connection made!

He holds this small victory tight inside himself, concealing his triumph, aware that his delight would be seen as inappropriate. He finds himself gallantly defending her status at the property office and later, at the morgue, even dares to use her first name. The anger he feels at the hospital when they finally confront Joe's killer is not because of his pain, his hurt but because of hers. He takes a back seat, letting her draw the case to its conclusion and marvels at his discovery.

This new feeling flutters within him, not deep in his belly where darker feelings lie, but in his chest, his heart; a butterfly, fresh from its cocoon, wings tentatively flexing, beautiful and fragile. He is terrified of scaring it away or worse still crushing it with his ineptitude. Carefully, tentatively he attempts to nurture it. During the investigation of the death of an FDA agent, he talks of books and learning, of finding peace in this chair. He is gladdened to see her glance of recognition; she knows he is revealing a glimpse of his private self just for her.

But Leslie LeZard's diatribe bothers him. He has no illusions about his own reputation. If anything, it was even more obvious these days what people thought of him and he didn't care. But he had never considered the impact it had on her. Remembering the success of his previous attempt at honest communication, he dares to ask:

"You worried about what she said? That your career is tainted by me?"

"I used to." A cautious, unsatisfactory response. He pushes a little more.

"And now?"

She sighs deeply, and gives him a long hard look. Her voice is heavy with defeat and resignation.

"It's too late"

Her answer is a crushing blow. The knowledge that he has damaged her, the guilt, enrages the beast within; small fluttering wings consumed as he turns his fury inward, on himself.

A cop killing, and selfishly all she could think of was that she needed him on the case with her. As the case took a more personal turn, she realised it had been a mixed blessing. He had been relentless, callous; cutting a swathe through the Blue Wall, the brass, her life. But he had also shown an unusual level of consideration toward her feelings, prompting a rare moment of candour between them.

But later she'd blown it, had been a little too honest with him. He'd shut down and the aura of danger she remembers from their earlier days was back; sharper, more palpable. It was present when he tossed Harper in the sea, in the way he'd taunted and baited that young author in the gym. Worse still was the cruel, cold way he had twisted the arm of the young man's mentor; his voice soft and gentle as he deliberately inflicted pain.

She curses Frank for turning up that morning, for setting in motion this latest devastating chain of events. She curses Ross for sending Bobby on sick leave. She curses herself for aiding and abetting in Bobby's undercover scheme, for not having learnt how to rein her partner in after all this time, for having defended him, covered for him yet again. But most of all, she curses Bobby.

The Chief of D's, the Captain, the gossip mongers, the spiteful and the envious all questioned his sanity. Hell, she had even done it herself, all those years ago. He was different, certainly. He seemed to operate under a rulebook all of his own and fuck, he always took things too far. Just like this time at Tates. Seeing him disorientated and dehydrated had shocked her, worried her that he had finally gone over the edge.

That is why she is here, now, outside his place. Two months into his suspension and she has not spoken to him. He is not answering her calls, her texts, her emails. She doesn't expect much; they don't socialise outside of work. Hell, they don't socialise much in work. But after eight years of partnership, eight weeks without him feels wrong. She'd even settle for a curt "Fuck off," she's that worried about him.

Raising her hand to rap on his door she realises it is already ajar. She pulls out her gun, takes a deep breath to steady herself and pushes the door further open with the toe of her boot. Moving quietly, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light she takes in the scene of devastation. The functional, orderly, almost monastic environment has been lost to chaos. Books are strewn around, carelessly abandoned. Every surface is covered with the remnants of half eaten meals, drinks half drunk and ashtrays overflowing. The floor is littered with rubbish and discarded clothing and the air is thick with cigarette smoke.

Fear deepens to dread as she picks her way carefully towards the bedroom where she can just make out his bulk in the gloom. She pauses on the threshold, holding her breath; only exhaling when she sees him taking a breath of his own. He is curled up, facing away from her. The grey cotton t- shirt is stretched across his broad back, matching shorts revealing pale legs marred by cuts and scars.

"Oh, Bobby!"

She places her gun on the nightstand, lies down next to him, her hand on his shoulder pulling him over to face her. He buries his head in the crook of her neck, clinging on to her; a life raft for a drowning man. She cradles him gently, stroking his back, his soft curls. He stirs, moves against her. She feels him harden as his hips rub against hers, the rhythm building; can hear his soft quick pants, the quiet groan. A groan that develops into gulping sobs as sexual release brings on emotional release; as hot tears soak the thin cotton of her shirt and warm semen seeps through the denim of her jeans. She holds him tightly as his massive shoulders heave; shocked that such a huge man could seem so small. The sobs gradually subside, his grip loosens and his breathing deepens.

He sleeps; a deep dreamless sleep.


	11. The Way Back

He'd been on a path of self destruction.

It was not passive, fatalistic but a warpath. He had raged and battled with himself, systematically examining, abandoning, destroying everything he believed.

He was a product of his childhood. _Now_ _genetics were a factor._ His mother was his salvation. _She's dead and he is not saved._ Family is important. _He had burned his bridges with his brother, had lost his nephew. _He is brilliant. _But ignorant in the ways of being a man. _He is a Detective, a cop. _Yeah, when it suited him, when it thrilled and engaged, when it gave him the chance to play. _ He has a partner. _But he has used her, let her down, hurt her. _He is a killer. _Not any more..._

He'd cut, paring away the fabrications, the lies, the self deceptions; bleeding out his hurt, his rage as the razor sliced his skin. He took more risks, challenged, provoked; didn't even bother to conceal his cruelty. He had used his anger to alienate Frank, had used Donny as an excuse to see how far he could go; had used Eames, knowing she would cover for him. He had welcomed 'Heaven' and truly was willing to take his investigation to the end of the line.

She had come for him.

Weeks later, when the self abuse had stripped him bare, when all that was left of him was emptiness, she had come for him again.

He'd awoken the next day, mind clear and body calm. It was a clarity and stillness that he had not felt since his last kill, the serenity that follows a storm. She had gone, the only testament of her visit was the order restored around him, within him. He looks at the dishes she had stacked in the drainer, the clear floor, the shelved books (in the wrong order, he couldn't help himself noting). He knows he should call her, but cannot even begin to imagine what to say. As he's on suspension, he can't even rely on 'business as usual' to provide an opportunity. Glancing at the misfiled titles, he finds inspiration and reaches for the phone...

His empty chair haunts her.

It's a daily reminder of his absence. She had not realised how much space he took up, not just physically, but in her life. Pulling another folder from the stack beside her, she sighs, realises she is longing to hear the irritating tap of his pen, wants the excuse to aim a wad of paper at him, yearns to see the resulting apologetic little smile. She wants, needs, it to be business as usual. Because his empty chair is not the only thing that haunts her.

She'd had trouble reconciling the man she found that night with the charismatic, arrogant, beguiling son of a bitch she had worked with for all these years. She'd lain there, holding him, thinking of his chameleon like ability to switch characters and realised, that at last, she had finally met the real Bobby. She realised too that he would not want to face her in the morning, that he would need time to gather his defences but that she was determined this time not to let him build them too high. She was thankful that his deep sleep had allowed her a final demonstration of her care before she left.

She had returned home from work the next day to find flowers on her doorstep. Huge overblown blooms an improbable shade of blue. The small card simply bore the letter 'B.' She had puzzled at his choice then had realised this was Bobby speak, oblique and cryptic. Had searched the internet, identified the flower and looked up its meaning:

"Hydrangea – heartfelt gratitude for being understood." Finally the tears that she had been denying had come.

And now she's picked up a new case, the murder of a couple of tourists, picked up a new _temporary_ partner. She is tired, working with Daniels has made her realise how well she and Bobby worked, on an investigative level at least. She is also tired of hearing the snide comments, of having to defend her partner yet again. She's still concerned about him. There had been a few messages, texts, and emails from Bobby; generic statements such as "I'm at the library", links to obscure articles or just "Hi". He always answers her calls though, the stilted conversation both a trial and a relief.

He quite likes the bar.

It gives him somewhere to go, after the library has closed. The bartender has learned not attempt conversation and the other patrons leave him alone, put off by his size and stern manner. He is avoiding spending too much time in private, is aware of the dangers it presents. His paper and his beer are mere props, he's not much of a drinker; doesn't like the way it clouds his mind and lowers his inhibitions. Instead, he is indulging in one of his favourite pastimes, figuring out a puzzle.

Only this time it has a more serious edge because he is the puzzle. He knows he cannot, will not, return to the way things were, that the instinct for self preservation has returned. But he needs to figure out a way forward. It is not something that can be mapped out in its entirety, but he must make a start, find some direction, before old habits creep back to fill the void. He has been working on this problem for a while, his thick beard evidence of one of the first decisions made. That had been an easy one; he had even felt a small measure of relief as he had thrown the razor in the trash.

He knows he needs to work; needs some structure, some purpose to his life. Ideally, he wants to be a cop again. He has spent most of his life in that role, it is one he is comfortable with, one that challenges and engages him, allows him to use his talents. He realises that even under the influence of the Sodium Amytal at Tates, even after the hours of mental torture, being a cop was the one thing he had clung on to. Perhaps it was more than just a role, perhaps it was part of his identity? But he's been on suspension for five months now, and the Brass show no sign of reinstating him...

The unpleasant confrontation with the former cop he had exposed for being half blind, and the ensuing conversation with the suspended Narcotics cop confirms his train of thought. He is unpopular, particularly with the Chief of Detectives and he's really going to have to pull something spectacular out of the bag for them to take a chance on him again. He looks at the card Stoat has given him. Perhaps he ought to consider an alternative plan, a safety net if he doesn't get back in.

He spies the gun folded in the newspaper and his brain begins to put pieces in place. This may just be his opportunity, his way back...


	12. Break Up

"Just get me back."

It had been an earnest plea to the Captain. He had just wanted to curry favour, to be a Detective again, not go undercover. There were too many dangers here, and not just the threat to his life.

He was walking a fine tightrope between cop, undercover work, security and outright bad guy. The roles blended seamlessly one into the other as he collected evidence, as he stalked through nightclub punters looking for any potential trouble, during the shake downs and drug deals. It was exciting and challenging on many levels.

He revelled in playing the game, the casual violence, only reigning himself and Stoat in when the potential for being caught was too high. He watched Testarossa carefully, a small man trying to build an empire, and planned how he could do it better. Kill or be killed, indeed. And just as he would lose himself in the allure of the underworld, there'd be another summons from the Captain, giving himself a chance to reassert himself as a cop, to re establish his boundaries before taking another deep breath and diving back under.

He'd stopped contacting Eames, stopped answering her calls. Thinking of how he had already tainted her career, he wanted to keep her at a distance. But after that night, that night of brutal honesty exposing all, he discovered he also couldn't lie to her. Not with the ease he lied to and manipulated Stoat. He had no stomach for doing that to her, so instead he kept his distance...

"Then it's your problem. Take care of it"

He knew the end was approaching, had known Hector was wired, had hoped it would go unnoticed. And now he is caught between playing for time and needing to act.

"Now?"

He feels a stirring in his belly as permission is given, as if he had ever needed permission for this in the past. Anticipation making his mouth dry, he queries;

"Here?"

Testerossa is an idiot, sanctioning a kill in his own office, no forensic counter measures. He would've been more cautious if he was the boss, but he is not worried. This is the endgame. Three possible outcomes; he becomes a cop, a corpse or a killer. He's got to the point where he doesn't care, just wants this nightmare of non-identity, non status to be over. He wants resolution.

He straightens, reaching back to grab the gun from his waistband and pulling the boy to his feet. He feels the heft, the weight of the piece. It is not his preferred method, in fact, has never been his choice; too cold, too dispassionate. He had preferred a more intimate, more personal approach. But that had been then, in rage and pain and hate. Now there was just the cold steel thrill, the metallic taste of adrenaline and the gun felt right, felt good. He lines the barrel up with the back of the skull, finger applying the first pound of pressure to the trigger, and pauses...He is poised in that perfect moment, the anticipation of life departing, breaths shallow, pulse racing, the stirring in his groin as the power begins to surge...

She watches him from the observation room, her shock now turning to steadily rising anger. She can't believe she had been so worried about him. She's been taken for a ride. Her face flushes as she remembers the way she had hissed at Stoat, defending her partner's space as a cat defends her kittens. Watches, listens as he interrogates Stoat, her mind full of spite.

"_I'm a cop; I'm allowed to lie to criminals_." A cop? Barely. And you'll lie to everyone and anyone when it suits you.

"_I'm nothing like you..."_ Take a long hard look, Bobby...

"_Are you that far gone?" _ I saw the look in your eyes, when I faced you down the barrel of my gun. Saw the coldness, the cruel delight before recognition dawned.

When he came to her with his apology, she found that she had no capacity left for forgiveness.

"Eames, I'm sorry."

He knows the words are inadequate but can think of no other way to start.

"That's all you have to say to me? I could have blown your head off back there. Eight years I've had your back and I don't even get the courtesy of a phone call."

"I was trying to protect you." For the first time, I tried. I really tried.

"And there were rules..." That sounded lame even to him...

"Rules!" Her laugh is harsh "You've gotta be kidding me. You managed to get word to the Captain; you contacted the Chief of D's but not your partner."

"This is my only way back. How else am I going to get my shield? You're not getting it..." She does not understand, doesn't realise that he was lost, just needed some direction, needed to get back to work, needed to get back to her...

"I get it. You're the genius and I just carry your water, right? You have any idea how many times I have lied for you, covered your ass?" He is aware of some of the times, is sure there are many others and comes to the shocking realisation that he has not covered for her once, has never needed to, that she has fought her own battles without him.

"I was in a deep hole here" I still am...

"And whose fault was that? All your wounds are self inflicted." He winces at the memory of a razor's sting, shuffles his legs as if trying to avoid the blade.

"You know I tried not to drag you into this one." He's clutching at that straw again, but it is too late.

"What would you have done if I hadn't burst through that door? If it wasn't me, you'd be dead." And now he sees it, a part of it. She had cared too much, and he didn't care enough.

"I didn't look for this"

"You could have fooled me, Detective. I hope it was worth it."

His body, his mind churns; a nauseating mix of guilt, regret, self loathing. He longs for the clarity, for the calm he had experienced in the aftermath of a kill and in her compassionate embrace. He'd denied himself the former to strive for the latter. Oh, he was a genius all right. His orgy of self abuse, self absorption, had not only drawn her in; it had driven her away.

He looks at the gold shield he has been clutching so tightly it has left its imprint in his palm. Worth it? He is not sure...


	13. Freedom

It had been childish.

She knows it but couldn't resist putting the rat in his desk. A rat and a Stoat: weasel like vermin crawling on their bellies through the cesspits. They deserved each other. But instead she was stuck with him. Oh, he was trying, keeping a low profile, deferring to her, seeking her opinions and generally sucking up to her. Sometimes he made an effort with his appearance but more often than not, he was bearded and wearing jeans and that felt like contempt, like disrespect.

But that level of anger, of hurt is hard to sustain. Weary resignation and cynicism taking its place as old patterns re establish themselves amidst the daily routine of business as usual. Her humour has less spite and they fall into step again as partners. But nothing more. She is charmed, delighted watching him play with the magic tricks, joins in hamming it up to trap that "mind reading" magician. But even without the reminders of lies and betrayal, she doesn't forget how he easily he can transform, how he can bewitch, entice, deceive... Fool me once, Detective...

Then his brother is murdered.

He hauls the slender blonde off the table, lifting her clear and shoves her against the wall. The sensation of her squirming body, the physical exhilaration a rare treat in what has become a rather drab existence.

He feels like he is walking on eggshells, trying not to offend, seeking endorsement, approval. His mental checks and balances are working overtime to minimise the chance of hurting her further, of letting her down again. He had thought he had broken through as he played the magician, a brief flashback to those glorious days when she had revelled in his outrageousness. But, like a dream, it had been beautiful and fleeting, impossible to hold on to.

Although he has already checked with her that it is OK to leave early to visit his mother's grave, he can't help but asking if she's sure. This need for reassurance bothers him; he feels a lack of confidence, emasculated somehow...

This inability to reconnect with her is what led him to reach out to his brother, led him down those steps, led him here to his brother's body. As he pulls back the cloth, he recalls an earlier time when he had been disappointed that his brother was not dead, a time of rage and hurt. But now it was a time of sorrow and regret.

A scavenger hunt with Nicole as the prize. And it's bringing out the worst in Bobby. His pig headed determination, his blatant denial, his defiance, his anger. She is not sure which disturbs her the most; when he is icy cold or boils with fury. And to add to the tension, the reappearance of his insufferable mentor and the wild accusations.

She may have her difficulties with Bobby, but that's between them. He is still her partner, and just as siblings may fight with each other but will valiantly defend each other against outside attack, her loyalty and her honour will not let her stand by as Ross voices his suspicions. Voices them and acts on them. She hates seeing them pick over the details of Bobby's life, it feels like an intrusion. _Admit it; you wanted to be the only one privy to his secrets._..

The door to the office flies open, revealing Bobby in a state she has not seen in a long time, not since that dreadful Thanksgiving.

Oh, the irony! To be suspected of murder now, now he had stopped. Suspected of a murder he didn't actually commit. They haven't even the guts to confront him. Outrage drives him to the Captain's office.

He challenges his partner and his Captain in turn, receives nothing but confirmation in reply. He can feel that long forgotten rage returning, and he paces the office trying to contain it. When his father is mentioned he loses it, barely managing to rein it in, the desire to punch Ross in the face is that strong. With iron will, and carefully measured speech, he regains control.

He stalks up to Ross, raises himself to his full height, feels the power and the menace within himself. He stares into his accuser's eyes, his small smile and raised eyebrow daring, provoking. He makes a blunt declaration of truth.

"Yeah, I'm a killer."

He had scared her. She was terrified of what he might do, _what he might have done._ She pushes that thought to the back of her mind, dismissing it as a by product of her fear. She vents her frustration on Ross, and realises amidst her fear, there is still care. Acknowledging this, she finds a way forward, even if it has to include Gage. He manages to irritate within minutes and she storms out, unable to listen to his pretentious prattling any longer.

What a fucking awful day and a violent, raging Bobby in the morgue is the last straw. This state of affairs is intolerable, she has to cut through his rage, bring him back to his senses. She has to re engage his brain. Using clear calm exposition, she lays it all out for him. Watches as he begins to think, to problem solve, to work things through... She breathes a sigh of relief.

He watches Declan wind up his partner, is grateful for her statement about feeling no anger toward him. He is resentful of the comparison of his mother and Nicole to her and cuts Declan off with a blunt declaration. "It's not Eames."

He listens with sadness as Declan tries to give him the absolution he has been seeking for so long, finds his voice is choked with emotion as he acknowledges the effort. Taking a deep breath, he shuts the feelings away, draws out the professional, the profiler from within and turns on his mentor. "You're good."

This is like all those confrontations with Nicole and Brady rolled into one; the thrust and parry. But this time it is tinged with bitterness as he realises this man he so admired for his brilliance, had felt closest too, didn't really know him at all. He flounders, lost, as emotion after emotion engulfs him.

Hatred: as Declan describes the death of his brother.

Despair: if Nicole the monster is incapable of love, what hope was there for him?

Disgust: as he shuns the touch he had once so welcomed.

Horror: as he realises the magnitude of what has been done for him, the twisted demonstration of love.

"You're free now, Bobby. You're free."


	14. Reconciliation

The interrogation room is bare, sterile, unadorned. Sharp lines and harsh angles, stark light reflecting off metallic furniture. It is cold, grey and featureless and it feels like a perfect fit.

He'd been frozen, unable to move since Declan's confession, all his energy consumed in trying to process, to assimilate, to adapt to this new reality.

Free?

In his delusion, Declan had excised the rotten, the decaying from the open wound that was left of his life. Just as he, himself had tried, in an orgy of self destruction, to bleed out the hurt and the rage, to cut away the damage at his very core. But what did that leave? His mind working furiously, he begins to understand.

The greyness is apt. It is not a matter of black or white, good or bad. His mother had hurt him, but had provided hope. His brother had been caught in his own cycle of self destruction, but had once been his protector. Nicole had aroused the very worst in him, but had also inspired some of his best work. Declan may be damaged, deranged but had provided affection, acceptance to the misfit of a young man in need of a father figure.

And on the flip side, Eames was compassionate, selfless, loyal but could be angry, bitter, hurt. And in accepting this new duality, he sees a way forward...

It was a bleak portrait.

She watches him through the one- way mirror, a monochrome study of a man lost, the only relief the dark flash of his shirt. Thinks back to the devastating aftermath of his last trauma, thinks hard about how she had crippled, castrated, him with her anger, her venom. Realises that sex and silence and 'business as usual' have not been effective, that communication is a two-way process and that while he may struggle with that, she has not been blameless. Admits, finally, to herself how important he is, how deeply she cares, how badly she wants him back... She goes to him.

Taking the seat opposite, dipping her head in conscious mimicry of one of his favourite moves, she catches his attention and holds his gaze.

"I... uh"

"I'm s..."

They both begin to speak at once, and embarrassed, look away. Look back, sharing half smiles. Hesitantly, slowly, his hand reaches across the gulf of the table until his fingers touch hers. They sit: joined by fingertips, by a gentle gaze and after eight years it feels like they are meeting for the first time...

It's like watching a resurrection.

She'd been surprised when it was he who had met her at the ferry; she wasn't expecting him back for another week. Had been even more surprised when he said he'd been visiting family. He looked good, not the sleek edgy elegance of years past but more real, more substantial somehow. Remembering her thoughts on communication, she had paid him the compliment and signalled her pleasure with a smile. And it was a pleasure to see him. He seemed more confident, more self assured. She hadn't been able to conceal the broad grin that spread across her face at his pedantic response to Ross's comment about Batman and in that moment knew she was getting her partner back.

And over the next few months that was what she witnessed, a re-emergence of the essence of her old partner. His face was more animated, more expressive. He was more engaged at crime scenes, talking through his analysis, staging re enactments. During interviews and interrogations, he was more physical, more dynamic and the tricks and ploys and skilful manipulations had even made a return.

Visiting family had been a good decision.

Looking around the dinner table, it had reassured him to know that there were whole, healthy, happy people carrying the Goren genes, that they were untainted. His niece, in particular, delighted him and he now understood why Eames took such pleasure in her own nephews and nieces. In fact, he couldn't resist showing off Molly's picture and he had felt himself swell with pride at her response.

Other decisions were also working out. Cautiously, he had reintroduced earlier techniques, wary of re igniting old hungers, old needs. Had been gratified at his success but was careful to avoid excess. Still, he couldn't deny that it made the job more exciting, more fun, made him feel more alive. He had even faced the razor, begun to shave again.

Then Boz Burnham was murdered, bringing Mulrooney out of the woodwork.

And he is astonished to discover he is jealous, cannot help poking and prying, pressing her for details. This is an opportunity to redress the balance, to do something for her, to make things right. But he has learned from his mistakes, and has learned more about her. She needs an ally, not a rescuer so he's careful to include her, involve her, not to get carried away with righteous zeal. Navigating the emotional minefield is more difficult. But he makes it through, feels relief as he hands her the cuffs. Feels a brief longing for a dark alley and privacy so he could truly demonstrate his hatred for this man who had tried to hurt her, makes do with a vindictive body check instead.

But the jealousy lingers.

She is tired, emotionally drained and definitely not in the mood for the pile of paperwork in front of her. This latest case had stirred up so many feelings; grief, guilt, the longing for intimacy, anger, irritation, fear but Bobby had amazed her. Yes, he'd shown his usual persistence, but he'd been considerate, had endured her anger, her irritation without shutting down, without shutting her out. OK, so he had got a little...personal and suddenly she realises why.

She looks across the desk at her partner. He has abandoned all pretence of doing paperwork, the manila files stacked in a neat pile. Instead he is staring intently at his blotter and she can tell by the rhythmic pen turning that he is mulling something over. As if sensing her attention, he looks up and flashes her one of those rare beautiful Bobby smiles.

"Bourbon, huh?"

She nods.

"Want one... uh...now? With me?"

She answers him with a broad grin of her own.


	15. Separation

It had been awkward, but not without its pleasures.

He had talked a blue streak all the way to the bar, in full show- off mode, comparing the merits of Scottish versus American whiskey. But seated, their respective whiskey choice in front of them, an uncomfortable silence had settled in. She groped for a suitable opener; knowing that this was too important to revert to mere shop talk, was wary of inviting another dazzling but superficial demonstration of his knowledge but didn't want to strike too deep, too soon. Then she remembered his pride in his niece and sees her way in.

Talk had come easier then, with the occasional hiccup, and as they waited outside the bar for her cab, she realised she had enjoyed herself. Realised, too that she did not want to part from him, not yet. Emboldened by the warm Bourbon glow, she had raised her hand to his face, intending to bring him to her level for a kiss. But he had intercepted her move, held her hand softly to his chest, and, with eyes full of sorrow, had quietly whispered "No".

Then the cab had arrived, the moment lost in his fumbling goodbyes, and she had returned home, frustrated and confused.

He was scared.

He'd concealed his nerves on the way to the bar behind a cloud of words, had frozen as the reality hit him. He was there, in the very situation that had inspired his envy of Mulrooney, yet he was lost. And once again, she had been his guide. But he'd been unable to accept her touch, had been grateful for the cab's timely arrival so he didn't have to see the disappointment her eyes, didn't have to explain his fear.

Emotional intimacy was an intimidating prospect but the thought of physical intimacy currently terrified him. His sex drive had been a constant in his life, had been at its height when he had felt most powerful, when he had killed. It had been present in his rage, in his cruelty. Even when he had been at his most despairing, the urge had not abated, had instead been twisted into another form of abuse; spilt semen like spilt blood, a means of emotional release. His last orgasm had been in her arms, had broken through the final barriers, had released his tears.

But since then his urge, his desire had been almost absent. He had tried to put it down to his age, his weight, his smoking but deep down he feared that pain was inextricably linked to his pleasure. In fact, the only times he had felt any stirrings of arousal recently had been while undercover, during the beat downs, when he had been on the cusp of killing again, when he got physical with a suspect. During the confrontation with Josh Snow, he tested his theory, had gotten physical, had played fast and loose with the gun. He had known it was not loaded, had the bullet in his pocket, but for a brief moment as the cold metal had pressed against his forehead, a small voice had whispered "_what if it's still loaded, what if you have made a mistake..?" _ As he had pulled the trigger, his cock had hardened.

And so, committed to the path he had chosen, he resigned himself to playing by the rules, to friendship, to impotency.

Then Ross had been murdered.

At the crime scene, he'd been shaken by Rodger's loss of composure, couldn't stop himself from trying to offer some form of comfort. Had felt his rage return at the FBI, had used it to bulldoze through to the body...his Captain's body. Torn by guilt, regret, anger he had stood next to Eames, had heard her sniff back her tears. Without thinking he had reached out, stroked her back, and clasped her to him, unsure if he was comforting her or reassuring himself.

She had shaken off his hand and he watched her pull herself together, regain the mask of professionalism, and he hated the culture that would not let her display her grief.

She wondered if she had pushed too hard, too fast. He had become a little edgier again, had alarmed her during the confrontation with Snow. But it had been short lived, and he settled down, had even become an advocate for following procedure, particularly when the murder of an arms dealer led to conflict with the FBI and their RICO case, and the terrible consequence that had led to. She had been grateful for his presence as they watched the body bag close, had allowed herself to briefly to lean on him, take comfort from his size, the shelter he offered.

A brief moment of peace before the world turned to crap again.

They had worked hard on Van Dekker, each playing their part, had spent hours bringing him to the point where he was cornered, where all that was left was his survival and a deal with the DA. Then the FBI had swooped in and Bobby's frustration with bureaucracy had come to a head, all of them interceding before he had marched out of the squad room with an angry retort.

Pacing outside 1PP, smoking furiously, it feels reminiscent of that Thanksgiving, when he had boiled with the frustration of being unable to work the case. He wants_, needs_ to work this case, not just for his own satisfaction but for Ross, for Rodgers. For Eames. Well, fuck it. For once he would let his reputation work for him, knows that he can get further when he is not hidebound by the rules, knows this will be the final nail in the coffin of his career but realises he doesn't care anymore. The only important thing for him at MCS is Eames and he must protect her reputation, cannot taint her further, knows too that their partnership, _friendship_, is no longer confined to work and can, will, survive outside of the NYPD.

Decision made, he stubs out the cigarette, and stalks off.

Looking at the evidence displayed on his kitchen walls, the folders and the files covering the tables, the pieces fall into place and she realises what he has done, and the calculating way he has done it, right down to not wearing his blues to the funeral. Anger briefly flares at the way she has been played and quickly dies as she understands he needed her reactions to be credible, genuine. He had not wanted her to seem complicit, was protecting her, had even clued her in with his pointed comment about being in touch, but she'd been too pissed to pay attention.

"I really feel I should try to talk you out of this..."

"That's always been a wasted effort."

She nods. "Yeah, right." Shakes her head, saddened by the course her irritating, headstrong, brilliant partner had chosen.

Had been even more saddened when she learned the conditions of her promotion.

He had known it was coming, had picked up on her comment about making painful deals, had tried to make it easy for her. He regretted not handing in his resignation, angry at himself for not having the foresight to know that Moran would use her this way.

But this was Eames, kinder, gentler.

As tears fill her eyes, he reaches out, resting a hand on her shoulder. He is stunned at how automatic, natural, this need to touch her is.

"You're the best, you always will be."

"Sure." His small smile acknowledging he was also the best at being frustrating, annoying, irritating, tiresome...

There is so much he wants to say, but emotion clouds his mind. A mind in turmoil, struggling to covey his feelings but filled instead with the clutter of half remembered fragments of verse, of poignant prose. His own words failing him, he seeks another form of expression.

His kiss on her cheek is a benediction, his embrace an attempt to express the words, the poetry that is swirling in his mind, choking in his throat...

"How I need another soul to cling to, another body to keep me warm. To rest and trust; to give my soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into."

I need you.

But the words will not come, not even a stilted, awkward interpretation. Just her tears, and the lamest farewell in history.

"Well, see you around, I guess."


	16. Apart

Surprisingly, he had been the first to call.

It had been a brief, almost curt, call cutting through her explanations, her apologies, to reassure her that he was fine. That he needed some time, some space, that he had some things he needed to attend to and he would contact her when he was done. And no, he didn't know how long it would take...

An enigmatic statement, but he had sounded strong, confident and so she pushed aside her worries. She needed to think about herself, her own future.

There were things that needed to be done.

On a practical level, he needed money. He reached out to friends, contacts and put together a piecemeal collection of freelance work that would keep him funded. But, more importantly, that would allow him the time, the opportunity to deal with other matters.

Other darker matters.

This was why he had called Eames. He did not want her muddled up with what he had to do. He needed to be clear headed, cold hearted, free from the emotions she evoked in him.

He studies his grim reflection in the mirror. He is clean shaven, grey curls hidden under a black knit cap to minimise the chance of stray hairs escaping. He is wearing a long sleeved cotton top and jeans; cheap generic, black clothing, available in hundreds of outlets. His boots, equally generic, have no discernible wear pattern. Heavy leather gloves to hide his prints and to avoid scraped, smashed knuckles. This is the uniform of the predator; not ritualistic, just pragmatic. He tucks his knife into his pocket and stalks out into the night.

He looks down at the body trembling, pinned by his weight. Smells the sweat, hears the whimpers, sees the fear in the bloodshot brown eyes, feels... pity. No hunger, no desire, no urgency, no _need_. He is in no doubt that he has the capacity to take this life, but there is no reason, no justification. Not even the cruel thrill of domination, of power. Stepping back, he releases this human wreck, shoving a bundle of creased notes into the shaking hand by way of apology and turns towards home. Silent tears run down his cheeks as relief washes over him.

The next task is harder, takes longer.

The notepad sits on the table for days, its blank pages taunting him. His conscience had never been a problem in the past; he had never felt the sting of hypocrisy as he preached morals to an offender. But like so much else in his life, this too had changed. Guilt and shame conflicted with his instinct for self preservation, with his self interest. He should turn himself in, but he has battled too hard, come too far, gained so much...So this is his compromise, his confession. At last, he picks up his pen and begins to write.

It is a sketchy chronicle; he had never kept records, trophies. Each kill had been a necessity not a secret to be savoured, treasured, relived. And when at last it was done, his contrition complete, he seals it in an envelope marked "To be opened on the event of my death." He places it carefully in his safe, alongside the unlicensed firearm, which he keeps as his last resort. Let those who survive me, judge me. With that thought, he pours himself a drink and spends an evening in the company of ghosts, of those missing loved ones, of John and Jane Does and unsolved cases...

And now he is ready, now he can call her.

She'd been caught off guard when he'd rung; distracted by the sliver of silk she had spotted caught in the window frame of the motel room. She motioned for a CSI tech to bag the evidence and switched her attention back to Bobby.

"Say again?"

"I ... uh... wondered if you wanted to grab a coffee."

"It's not exactly a good time, right now..." She watches the body bag being lifted onto the gurney, can sense his disappointment. "Look, Thursday's my day off, let's catch up then."

And they had. And coffee had turned into lunch as she soaked up his stories of some of the jobs he had been doing for Logan's PI business, laughed at his tales from Lewis' body shop. Admittedly, the research he had been doing for that linguist chap sounded a little dry, but he obviously enjoyed it and that pleased her. Was pleased too that she had read one of the articles he had written on the psychology of crime, published in a magazine under a pseudonym.

When, in turn, she regaled him with her own adventures on temporary assignment to Homicide in the 1-6, she revelled in the way his eyes never left her, his whole attention focussed exclusively on her. Oh, god, she had missed that intensity, the way it made her feel; exalted, exhilarated and yes, damn it, horny as hell.

There is silence now, but it is not uncomfortable. She watches him, knows from the way he is arranging and rearranging the packets of sugar that he is working himself up to say something important. And sure enough, he stills his hands and begins to speak.

"That night, outside the bar, you remember?"

She nods, of course she remembers, realises he cannot see her response as he is intently studying the tablecloth. Gently she places her hand on his, surprised by the warmth of his skin. He looks up, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"When I said no, I didn't mean not ever..." He searches her face for encouragement, sees hope and expectation, and plunges on.

"I ... well, I just meant not yet." He ducks his head in embarrassment, feels her fingers gently stroke his hand, looks up to see hazel eyes shining.

"Whenever you're ready, Bobby."

The call from Joe, inviting him for a drink had been a surprise. They'd paired up when they had both been in the Academy, had been a formidable team. Their height and their broad shoulders had made them a formidable sight too, and had made for many uncomfortable car rides...Laughing to himself as he now adds their girth to the picture, he tries to concentrate on what Joe is saying. Listens as Joe explains his assignment to MCS, that the department's performance indicators were low and that he had been tasked with turning things around.

"I need results, and plenty of them. So how about it, Bobby? Will you come back?"

The answer is simple.

"Not without Eames."


	17. Reunion

She pauses on the threshold, taking stock.

Remembers the last time she had been here and had sworn never to return. She remembers the pain of parting and her urge to resign. Remembers too, the feel of his lips on her cheek; the haven, the heaven of his embrace. Pragmatism had won out and she had stayed a cop, but not with Major Case. She had instead taken a variety of temporary assignments, away from here, away from the memories of him. She had binned the latest MCS transfer papers, until the follow up call had come from Captain Hannah, with reasons, explanations and the promise of Bobby.

And there he was. He was early, as he had always been; sitting where he had always sat. His smart dark suit is a little tight, but the brilliant white shirt, discreet tie and good grooming lend him a distinguished air. He is staring at the ever present binder on the uncluttered desk, his hands clenching and unclenching between his knees, betraying his apprehension.

She feels a little nervous herself. It was not like she hadn't seen him for ages, had seen him last week, in fact. Coffee or lunch with him had become a regular highlight of her week. Highlight and heartbreak; the joy of spending time with him tinged with frustration that that his "not yet" had not become "yes, now." But this is different; this is a decade of memories, their playground and their battlefield.

Taking a deep breath, she walks over, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder as she leans over to place the coffee on the desk in front of him. His broad smile of delight transforms him and she gives his shoulder a small squeeze, and takes her seat.

Silence.

Putting down her own coffee, and making sure she has his full attention, she picks up a piece of paper. Screwing it up into a tight ball, she takes careful aim and hits him with it, squarely on the chin. At his look of outrage, she chuckles mischievously.

"That was a pre-emptive strike against pen tapping."

"Ohhhh..." His eyebrows rise, his grin accepting the challenge. He returns fire, long fingers propelling the paper with some force into her shoulder.

"And that was a defence against sarcasm..."

Ice broken, tone set, they begin to work.

Another crime scene and again he all but shoves her out of the way, keen to get at the corpse. But this time she's ready, knows this is what he does, how he works. How they work, together. Knows while she is pinning down a witness on details, he is rifling through possessions, checking out photos. Knows instinctively when he is about to interject with some seemingly irrelevant observation or question. It is like time has rolled back; even Captain Hannah has some of the manner and terminology of Deakins.

"Let's lie."

An invitation to an outrageous, playful performance with a delighted audience of one. And he has been more playful, not just to disarm suspects but more playful with her, flirtatious even. She basks in his attention, the "not yet" in her mind turning to "soon."

Happy, hopeful thoughts distracting her from the present, here outside Dr Gyson's office. She had not gotten involved with his psych evals, that was his stuff to do. But this was the last one, the verdict, his future. The case was a flimsy excuse; she was here to share in his triumph, to catch him if he fell...

He had forgotten how much he enjoyed this, enjoyed working with her. After she had broken the initial tension, it was the heady delight of business as usual. Freed from hunger and need, from tension and deception, he relaxed. He relaxed enough to give the resurrected fluttering in his chest room to breathe. Relaxed enough to forget his mental censor, to call Joe a moron and was brought back firmly into line. But it was a minor slip. Mostly he was exuberant, revelling in her presence, finding delight in the smallest things. And in the lingerie store, his mind playing with images of her in such things, of touching, feeling smooth silk and her skin, his desire had returned. In his elation, he couldn't resist leaning over and confiding "I love this place."

And so he worked, and played, and flirted. And he had been rewarded with access to her private life, stories from her past and the honour of meeting her father. Watching her practical display of her love for her Dad, he was reminded of the numerous demonstrations of her care for him and was filled with awe. He wishes he had taken her to meet his mother, had missed the opportunity of witnessing his mother's acid wit come up against her pointed sarcasm and had experienced a precious moment of affectionate longing for the mother he had lost.

He had dreaded the shrink sessions, had tried to duck out of them. But Dr Gyson had surprised him, had challenged him and hadn't backed down. Matching his wits against hers, it reminded him of confrontations with Nicole, the thrust and parry. He challenged back, dared her, provoked her, had given her a taste of his rage but she had been steadfast, unflinching. He was careful with his revelations, applying some judicious editing and fiercely defensive in keeping his feelings for Eames private. They were not to be shared with another, not before he shared them with her. And anyway, this was just to keep his badge...

"You are justifiably terrified of what we might discover."

Her words evoke images of bodies and blood, of secret confessions, spoken and written. Of the cold, hard part of him that still remains at his core. Perhaps he can use her, use this process to repair some of the damage, to heal some of his wounds. Perhaps here he can learn, practice open, honest communication, free from the worry of causing irreparable damage.

Decision made, his badge secured, he hands the Doctor back her card. "Same time, next week?"

Stepping out into the sunlight, he is surprised to see her. She gives a small nod of greeting, and as he walks down the steps towards her, he wonders when he had stopped consulting his mental guidebooks, when she had stopped being 'Eames, partner' or 'Eames, person' and had become...

"Alex?"

"How'd it go?"

"Good."

One small insignificant word to convey so much of significance but her beautiful smile tells him she has understood, has caught every meaning. Her reply is equally nuanced.

"Good."

Studying her face, losing himself in the warmth of her gaze and absorbing all the implications of her answer, he feels fluttering wings flex, take flight and soar.

Shop talk does not puncture his euphoria, their words in unison only heighten it and as he walks round the SUV, he thumps the hood in a small expression of triumph. Taking his seat, he catches a faint trace of her perfume. Hyacinth. In the language of flowers, the expression of the first emotion of love...

He looks over; his mind flooded with a decade of days spent with her, and admits the truth of this.

"Let's go."

A new journey has begun.


	18. Epilogue

_The sunlight sparkles, reflected in shining glass towers. Sparkles and dances as the fountains play. It is spring and he is alive. Golden and silver, and inside him, it is lighter still. His proud form strides, imposingly, as he searches, nostrils flaring, sniffing out a particular scent. He is seeking his hope, his happiness with her unique fragrance of honeysuckle, hyacinth, heliotrope. In this moment there are no plans, no schemes; just passion and an overwhelming sense of promise. He is running on instinct, driven by desire, his quest for her._

_There, slim figure outlined in cream linen, leaning against the wall at the far end of the block. The dress is tailored, highlighting her fine figure, the colour accentuating her features. At last! All that matters now is the scent caught in his nostrils, the fluttering in his heart and the stirring in his groin. His strides are more purposeful now and she spies him, smiles, her own senses stirred. Her pale figure slips away, casting teasing glances, pace increasing. Ducks into an alley, but unable to resist, peeks out, trying to ascertain if he has seen, is following... _

_Grasp at the waist, twirls her against the cool, stone wall. Secures her hands above her head, uses his height, his weight to pin her lithe body, a lover's embrace. He tilts his head, brings his lips down, and begins to whisper. He talks of caresses, kisses in secret places, of scent and sensation, the eroticism in her enjoyment of his touch. He talks of the beauty of her body, of the shiver of her skin meeting his, of the blessing in union. He pours soft, gentle words of love in her receptive ear, and waits. _

_Waits, mouth dry in anticipation of the response. Sometimes there is lust, her body twisting, pressing into his, and he reacts in kind, passion exploding, smashing his lips to hers, grinding his hardness against her, heat and urgency. Not today. Today there is trembling, the soft warmth of her kiss, the melting of her body against his. There are sighs, pleas, moans as his tongue explores the trio of gems that decorate her ear. He quiets the sounds, covering her lips with his, tongue continuing its voyage of exploration. He sees desire flare in her hazel eyes, feels her body move sensuously under his, the thrill in his belly, cock straining in the confines of his jeans. Love surges through him, cleansing him, freeing him. He watches the light shine in her eyes, feels her weight as she leans into him, trusting him, needing him. He strokes her soft hair, runs a finger along her smooth cheek, steps away and takes her hand. _

_He stretches, breathes deeply, revelling in the contentment, in the commitment, in the calm. He turns them towards home, aware of his erection rubbing against heavy denim. Cool cotton sheets await, an afternoon to spend in her company, in her arms, in the delights of her body. He is already experiencing exhilaration beyond the physical, beyond sexual. He feels vital, electricity energising his muscles. Loose limbed and light hearted, he draws her with him into the sunshine._

A/N

Thank you to all who were courageous enough to join me on this journey.

Critique is welcomed – it sharpens my pencil!

Please note:

Bobby's misremembered poem in "Separation" is courtesy of Sylvia Plath.

And as ever the usual disclaimers, and thanks to Mr D'onofrio and Ms Erbe for providing such memorable performances, that we are still inspired to this day...


End file.
